


CrossRoads (or Apples aren't the Only Fruit)

by Jaydeun



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Protective Crowley, Satan - Freeform, Southern Gothic, Worried Crowley (Good Omens), devil comes down to Georgia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-08-31 23:24:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20248366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaydeun/pseuds/Jaydeun
Summary: “You wanna run that by me again?” he asked. Aziraphale was perched neatly upon his decrepit desk chair, sipping tea with affected concentration.“You really should see the recipe,” he continued primly. “I’ve committed it to memory. But it’s absolutely necessary to have them fresh.”“Peaches, you are talking about.”“Georgia white peaches, Crowley. Very specific.”...A little trip to the US and a very odd little orchard with some unexpected company





	CrossRoads (or Apples aren't the Only Fruit)

**Author's Note:**

> This work was completed for the Summer 2019 GO Fan Exchange, on twitter as #GoFanExchange. The Prompt: Aziraphale and Crowley go on a date to 'pick your own apples' place. no symbolism there. none. nope. Just sounded fun, no deeper meaning, really! they're both terrible liars. 
> 
> I have departed slightly in that it's peaches...and they have an uninvited guest.

In all the 6000-odd years of traveling the globe, Crowley had never stayed anywhere very long—not until Aziraphale had decided on being the nearest approximation of British, that is. As a result England, and ultimately London, had kept his attention for the last millennium or so. It had that well-worn feeling. And despite being the more adventurous of the pair, he’d not really thought about leaving it even for a holiday. He’d especially not considered that _Aziraphale_ might want to travel, and until Tuesday, August 11th, he’d had sword on Beelzebub’s underpants that the last place the angel would want to go was Georgia, United States.

“You wanna run that by me again?” he asked. Aziraphale was perched neatly upon his decrepit desk chair, sipping tea with affected concentration.

“You really should see the recipe,” he continued primly. “I’ve committed it to memory. But it’s absolutely necessary to have them _fresh_.”

“Peaches, you are talking about.”

“Georgia white peaches, Crowley. Very specific.”

Crowley rubbed the bridge of his nose.

“Angel, have you ever _been _to Georgia?” he asked. “Or anywhere in the American South? It’s August. So humid you’ll swim through the air.”

“I’ll have you know I met Hemmingway in New Orleans,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley ignored the intentional name-dropping. He’s always hated that guy.

“You’ll sweat through your waistcoat.”

“I won’t wear a waistcoat, then.”

“You _hate_ being damp. It’s all swamp down there.” Crowley was running through his mental catalogue of other things not to like about the United States generally and Georgia in particular. “And there was the Civil War South thing.”

“Ah, Walt Whitman,” Aziraphale said somewhat reverently. Crowley slung his head back against the sofa and stared at the ceiling.

“How many times—_the Civil War wasn’t just Whitman poetry_. He wasn’t even from the South. And the point is—” Crowley lifted his head and glared meaningfully at Aziraphale. “The point is, _Rome. _Or Paris. Or Moscow, I don’t care, WHY MUST IT BE GEORGIA?”

Aziraphale set his cup down and pressed his fingertips together. His blue eyes gazed heavenward, a serene smile playing on his lips.

“_Peaches_,” he breathed.

***

The Atlanta airport had been annoying in the way airports always were; Crowley couldn’t cause any mischief there because flights had already been cancelled or delayed and baggage mixed up, broken, or mishandled long before he got there. Leave it to humans to invent a system of utter and complete misery the likes of which even Hastur could never have dreamed. At least he’d managed to rent a reasonably fashionable car, which grew a tape deck upon contact with Crowley’s long fingers, and politely switched its driver and passenger sides. Shame he couldn’t do the same to the stupid roads.

It was bloody HOT, too. Crowley shed his jacket, but he could feel the hot seat through his tee shirt; he’d stick to it by the time they got where they were going. Consequence of human bodies; some things were actually easier as a snake. Aziraphale had donned a linen shirt and recused himself from the waistcoat, but still had the bow tie firmly in place.

“Dear me, I do hope the Air-BeeBees have climate control or I’m going to miracle an ice box,” Aziraphale said; his pale skin had flushed agreeably pink as he dabbed his forehead with a tartan handkerchief.

“That’s Air B&B,” Crowley corrected, and of course it did. He gave the angel a sly smile. “Regretting the trip yet?”

“Not in the least. Two dozen should do it; the instructions say _pick your own_.” He was looking over a brochure, and Crowley snatched it from him. _Eden Orchards._

“You can’t be serious,” he moaned.

“What? I’m not implying anything—it’s just the closest one. And I thought it would be best to, em, pick from the tree. Oh don’t look at me like that! For _Forbidden Fruit_ it said the very freshest—”

“I’m sorry, _what_?”

“The recipe,” Aziraphale squeaked. Crowley turned sideways to glare more effectively.

“We are going to Eden Orchards so you can make a dessert called Forbidden Fruit.”

“Well at least it’s not _apples—_Watch the road!” Aziraphale gripped the dash and Crowley swerved easily to miss a stalled truck partly in his lane.

“You’re a piece of work, angel,” he grumbled.

***

The Air B&B didn’t disappoint; there most certainly was air conditioning, and a small kitchenette so Aziraphale could do—whatever it was he planned to do—with fresh picked peaches. Crowley’s tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth; he didn’t even _like _peaches. At least, not the canned ones. Slippery bastards. And too sweet. He didn’t eat all that often, but he wasn’t about to waste it on _that_. When Aziraphale had got through commenting on the coordinating bath towels and thoroughly arranged his books on the bed stand, they could at last be on there way. To wherever they were going.

The drive was all right. Hills and things, all of it green. You could grow a jungle if you had a mind. A rather faded sign suggested _Eden_ was just around the corner.

“Oh!” Aziraphale clapped happily from the passenger seat. A hill rose just ahead, rich verdant green, with rows and rows of trees and pleasant shady avenues. Another quarter mile and Crowley parked next to a You Pick sign.

“Hnuh,” he hummed, poking around the side. “Nobody here—you sure its open?”

“The brochure said open every day, especially Sunday.” Aziraphale said, pouring over it again.

“_Especially_? That’s odd, in’it?” Crowley wriggled his shoulders to unstick the damp tee-shirt. All well and good if they had to abandon the quest. “Can’t buy peaches if there’s no one to get ‘em from.”

“Nonesense!” Aziraphale said, vigorously fanning himself with the leaflet. “Look here! Baskets!”

Crowley’s squint turned into a wrinkled-nose sneer.

“Those weren’t even _there _before,” he insisted, looking over his glasses just to be sure. And yet, behind Aziraphale and on the picnic table were wicker picking baskets and a sign saying _Help Yourself. Payment on Exit. _Aziraphale tucked one over his arm, and smiled broadly.

“Can I tempt you?” He said brightly. Crowley frowned but followed after.

“You’re doing this on purpose,” he complained.

***

For all his reservations, Crowley had to admit that the atmosphere under the trees had its charms. For once thing, it seemed far cooler than the baking parking lot. For another, a cool breeze kept sliding between the leaves, rustling his hair and causing Aziraphale’s shirt to billow pleasantly about his stocky torso. _Nice_, Crowley thought lazily.

“Not going to help, my dear?” Aziraphale asked, peeking over him where he lay against the grass. He’d lost the bow tie finally, and Crowley grinned at the peek of heat-flushed skin just above the open collar.

“Nah, s’right. Knock yourself out,” he said. The quiet hum of insects—and Aziraphale babbling to each and ever peach he examined about _how well we are looking today_—acted as a lullaby. Crowley let his mind wander a bit, closing his eyes and feeling the earth under him. Thought about summoning a bottle of wine, but this was Georgia after all; it was Chacha, wasn’t it? Or rum. Something. Crowley stretched his long limbs until his fingers grazed the tree trunk.

“_ouch_,” he yanked his hand back and stared at the pads of his fingers. It had _burned_. He lunged to his feet and turned around to face gnarled bark. “The fuck kind of tree is that?”

Except he knew what kind. It was an apple tree. Crowley pulled his sunglasses off and stared a minute; had that been there earlier? Old growth wood lifted up a canopy of bright red fruit, each one round and shiny in a way that reminded him of a time before insects and pesticides.

“Aziraphale? You gotta see this,” he whispered, backing up. “Aziraphale?”

Something told him not to take his eyes off the tree. It was overruled by the lack of Aziraphale’s response. Crowley spun around, and came face to face with a dour old man instead.

“Evening,” the man said, tipping a broad-brimmed hat. He was tall, if a little stooped, and wore a long wool trench coat. “Can I help?”

Crowley’s instincts had apparently gone offline. He could get no read at all on the man, and the hat mostly obscured his eyes. Which reminded Crowley his own were naked, and snaky. He patted his pockets looking for the glasses.

“Look, yeah—My friend and I were just leaving. You seen him?”

“Pale fellow?” The man smiled with very white, very perfect teeth. The sort that should be in commercials and not on a human face. “Linen shirt?”

“That’s him,” Crowley said taking an involuntary step backward. “Where is he?”

The man turned very slowly; he held a cane in one hand and now used it to point toward the horizon. His voice came out slow, too, just as polite as before but with an edge Crowley recognized as honey and poison and the art of manipulation.

“He finished picking hours ago, before the sun went down,” he said, turning the unearthly smile back to Crowley. And as if on cue, twilight descended. Crowley kept himself rooted to the spot, feeling the earth as part of his own bone structure. His eyes had gone full yellow, swallowing up the whites, and the curl of his lip revealed snarling teeth.

“_Who are you_,” he hissed, “_And what have you done with Aziraphale_.”

“Tsk. Walk with me, Crowley,” the man said.

“No—I won’t!” Crowley growled, but to his horror, found that his body betrayed him. The man kept on walking, and Crowley followed in jerky, resistant steps.

“I still like a garden,” The man said mildly. “Even now. Don’t have many of those downstairs. And _you_ like a garden, I know. It’s why I allowed you to volunteer the first time.”

Crowley’s brain was on fire; _how could he be so stupid_? Of COURSE he recognized the voice. It was the same one, dripping with ambrosia and an elbow-ribbing of ‘aren’t we on the same side’ that got him into trouble in the first place.

“Lucifer,” he spat.

“Silly boy, we are in _America_. They prefer to call me the Devil. Satan, sometimes. There are television shows.” Lucifer sat on a hickory stump and tapped his patent leather shoes with the tip of his cane. “I don’t care for your London. No place to have a quiet chat. But look here—” He spread his arms wide, and though Crowley’s corporeal eyes saw only the orchard, he also saw a landscape devastated by a war of brother against brother.

“You like a war,” Crowley groaned against whatever kept him standing in place.

“_Civil _war, though. Isn’t that a lovely idea?” Lucifer asked. “Don’t mistake me, boy. I’m not a fan of violence.”

Crowley scoffed, or tried to, but a white hot cord seemed suddenly clapped about his throat.

“Tut, tut. You’ll hurt yourself.” It was getting darker, and colder. Lucifer seemed to relish the void. “The point of war is not destruction. It’s arriving at an understanding. Until heaven and hell cease being at war, the humans have no chance to eradicate it. It’s up to us, you know. That’s why I brought you here.”

“The—brochure—“Crowley winced at the cord, which tightened whenever he spoke. “Forbidden Fruit. Eden acres. Dunno how I missed it.”

“You didn’t miss it, you just didn’t _believe _it,” Lucifer looked up, the brim of the hat just high enough to reveal a glint of deep red. “That is the beauty of the obvious.”

“Just tell me where Aziraphale is,” Crowley demanded, but Lucifer only shook his head.

“Or what, boy? The angel is not in my jurisdiction. And we are not speaking of him, but of _you_.” The uncanny smile re-asserted itself coldly. “Your bluster is charming, and I know it serves a purpose among the lesser sort of demons. But you and I understand each other, don’t we, Crowley? You’ve been here on earth so long. You’ve seen it thousands of times: take any group and remove its chief enemy—they will find enemies among their ranks to ostracize. We didn’t invent that. That’s what comes of all this fracture between occult and ethereal.”

Crowley knew this speech. Not just because he’d heard it before from Lucifer, but because it echoed in every corner of hell, and a good bit of earth, too.

“You’re so keen, go heal the breach, then,” he spat breathlessly. The invisible cord had set coils about his upper arms now, and crept about his torso. It gave him another warning constriction.

“Ah. Very good of you to return me to the point,” Lucifer tipped his hat. “Up to _us_. If we win, we can fix creation. That was the point of the first uprising.”

_More like downfalling_, Crowley thought. It was easy to outsmart Hastur, and you could at least _work_ with Beelzebub, especially after that thing with Gabriel. What on earth did you do with the King of Hell himself? Lucifer’s elderly corporation wrinkled the fine lines around his keen eyes.

“You can bargain with him,” he said, reading Crowley’s thoughts. He stood now on his perch with the wool coat flapping about him. “I’ve always been reasonable in a bargain.”

The cane was gone. But he had a case instead; it looked just big enough for a violin.

“Do you know the charming stories about crossroads?” Lucifer continued, tapping the case. “Or the_ Devil comes down to Georgia_; I’m a musician in that one, trading a soul for a golden fiddle. Ah, Americans. _Cherish_ them.”

Crowley watched him unlatch the case, but he didn’t produce and instrument. It was instead a set of scales for measuring.

“It’s about sides. About divisions,” Lucifer said, pressing first on one side of the scale, and then on the other. “Which side has the moral weight? Who is in the right?”

“Maybe you didn’t get my last report to hell,” Crowley growled. “_It said fuck you._”

He shouldn’t have said that, probably, because he found himself writhing on the ground for his trouble. The searing cord hurt like a knife that bit without cutting through. Crowley wrestled it;

“_You can’t force me to do shit_,” he groaned.

The pain stopped as suddenly as it started.

“Crowley, Crowley. When have I ever forced you to do anything?” Lucifer laughed. “Mother and I have our differences,” he said, dropping the scales from one hand, and catching a violin in the other. “But we believe in choices. Now—about yours.”

Crowley scrambled to his feet, which still wouldn’t let him walk away.

“Choices? Easy,” he panted. “Aziraphale.”

The smile dropped from Lucifer’s face, but a sense of mock concern remained.

“Oh my friend, I wouldn’t ask you to choose between hell and Aziraphale. I wouldn’t be such a fool. And do you think I look down on deep friendship? On love, even?_ I was born of it_.” He placed his chin upon the violin and dragged the bow across the strings until they vibrated. “I am asking you to choose between Heaven and Hell, Crowley. Between Heaven in all its wretchedness, and _me_.”

Crowley prided himself of being prepared for most things. But he wasn’t prepared for _this_. Lucifer warmed the instrument, sawing against strings till it sang eerily.

“Hadn’t you considered,” he asked, bony fingers moving fast, “That Heaven allows violence only to provoke humanity? You said it yourself; _we don’t make them pull the trigger_. Look at the big lovely guns of America, Crowley, and their marvelous divisions, all wrapped in religious fervor and preached from pulpits. You think that’s who _we_ are? It’s not who _you_ are, I know.”

Lucifer spoke with all the golden honey of gods. Apollo and his chariots and horses could never have compared to the warm rain that slipped over Crowley’s jagged rocks. Soothing.

“No, it’s not,” he admitted. Lucifer frowned.

“And yet you have revoked your choice when we most have need of you. Think, Crowley; we can put an end to all the division when we win. I bent that little angel around the pleasure he loves best to get you here, and now I want to know: are you with us? Or them?” The music had grown louder and more insistent. Crowley curled his lip.

“Neither. I’m neither.”

The violin screeched to a halt.

“You cannot be on your own side, say what you will.” Lucifer pointed the bow at him; it seemed suddenly too long and sharp. “You owe allegiance.”

Owing allegiance? _Giving_ allegiance? A small, very small, idea had just crept into the light of Crowley’s consciousness. It didn’t quite take shape, but he could almost see its edges. _Aziraphale is not under Lucifer’s jurisdiction. _That was true. Whatever his demons got themselves up to, Lucifer wouldn’t risk overstepping his bounds. _Bounds._ Because there were sides, and edges, and you didn’t cross them. Except Crowley had. And Aziraphale had. They had done something Lucifer hadn’t dared.

And it meant _Crowley_ wasn’t under Lucifer’s jurisdiction, either. The Devil didn’t court you unless he didn’t _own _you. And the knowledge turned the cord of white-hot fire to mere smoke.

“Nope. ‘Fraid not, Lucy,” Crowley said and stretched his arms wide. Lucifer’s red eyes flared.

“Crowley, I warn you—” he hissed. But Crowley just stepped backward and tilted his head skyward.

“Hey, Mum! You watching all this?” he asked, and watched as Lucifer quailed. Wasn’t _that _just delicious? “Yeah, yer boy here, he’s getting real drunk on power.”

“People will _die_, Crowley! Think!” Lucifer’s shape was starting to shift and blur. “You don’t want more violence; no one—no one wants it less than I. Just help me win—”

“Free will, I think? Wasn’t that it, Mum?” Crowley continued. Then, for better effect, he pretended to hear an answer. “Oh yeah, forgot about that; eh, Lucy, Mother wants a word about the _last _time you exercised free will.”

The old man had slipped off Lucifer like the woolen coat, leaving a core of red light.

“You didn’t!” he snapped, like many voices at once. “You _didn’t_.”

“Hear from MOTHER? Why not? Eh? Why NOT?” Crowley took a step forward and Lucifer’s essence shuttered. “I think what I’m trying to say is, I’m _not_ choosing _you_.”

The earth shifted, breaking open until a bleak and smoking staircase appeared beneath Lucifer’s feet. He didn’t say another word, but his last look was one of deep loathing, but also longing and unmistakable jealousy. The ground sealed up behind him, leaving Crowley in the dark.

His heart was hammering, making the blood rush in his ears. He’d _sent Lucifer himself away_. He let out a long, slow breath.

“Thanks, mum,” he muttered into the nighttime orchard.

_You are welcome, _came the reply.

It sounded like thunder, and like great rolling wheels and thundering earthquakes. Crowley’s world spun sideways. And then the light—the blazing, blinding, blinkering LIGHT—and a still, small, voice.

***

“Crowley? For heavens sake, wake up.”

“Zrfell?” Crowley opened one cautious eye and then the other. Above him was an apple-cheeked angel, a full basket of peaches, and a searing blue sky.

“I had a terrible time waking you—don’t scare me like that!” He placed a peach-fuzzed hand against Crowley’s brow. “Heat stroke? Why are you wearing black, anyway; you _know_ it won’t do in the sun. Best we head back.”

Crowley sat up and ran a hand through his hair. Debris, pollen, and fallen leaves trickled into his lap.

“No apples?”

“My dear boy, you are never going to let that go, are you?” Aziraphale helped him to his feet. “Look here! The lad from the farm shop stopped and helped me pick! Just when you think there’s no good in the world, people can be so kind!”

“Yeah, angel.” Crowley squinted into the distance. There were others out there, now. Children playing in the shade, families. And the _lad_ Aziraphale mentioned, complete with straw hat, waving them toward the exit.

“He’s not sure how he missed us when we arrived. Out to lunch, maybe. Speaking of!” Aziraphale gave a full body wriggle and tapped his pocket watch. “There is a darling café at the farmhouse. Shall we?”

Crowley still felt shaky. And it was still much too hot. But he wrapped one arm around Aziraphale’s, careless of his sudden blush, and walked him down the shady lane.

“Sure, angel,” he said. And he meant a lot of things by it. Including the sudden realization that sides might be slightly irrelevant in the grand design, and that maybe crossroads didn’t matter when you knew the way home. Even if it was a long road. “You promised to make me dessert.”


End file.
